In
one of the quaintest little houses imaginable on State
street, just off Seventh is a watch repair shop. A one-story
yellow frame of that dignified and beautiful period of
Colonial building, with wide portico and long square-paned
French windows, it is a most attractive little place. The
entire front yard is filled with flowers. From the street
one’s eyes are captured by the shelves of clocks behind the
long windows, and the sign above the door which announces
the business of the owner.

Inside are old fashioned show cases and shelves filled with
watches and clocks, with a collection of jewelry and
cigarette lighters on the side.

The proprietor is a pleasant faced German who came to this
country in 1892. He had just finished repairing an antique
cuckoo clock of hand carved wood.

“It’s about 95 years old,” he said. “The wood is stone
beech, which only grows in the Black Forest.” With a tender
finger he traced the intricate leaf carvings of the aged
wood.

Although I did not come to buy, he made me
welcome with grave courtesy and gave me the answer to all my
prying questions. And a fair-haired, gentle-faced German
woman who entered from the rear also spoke to me as a
hostess who makes any stranger entering her door feel at
home.

On the porch outside, a gray bearded old man
held a baby on his knee. The clocks ticked loudly in the
little room, in different keys. It is a house where there is
plenty of time.